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Hostile

Three Authorities and dangerous traffic keep Jada and Cyrus cornered on the roof of the taxi. The cops move in, guns drawn.

JADA: Alright, I warned you!

Jada shoves Cyrus away, into oncoming traffic. He tumbles onto the road and a car whips by next to him, trapping him in place. Headlights come into his view and he closes his eyes to accept his fate, when suddenly a long, white, elastic arm shoots through the air from an oncoming car. The long arm pulls him upward as another car slams his knees.

CYRUS: AGH!

To protect from whiplash, tendrils from the arm brace his spine and neck. He helplessly misses the flow of traffic swinging like a wrecking ball. In moments, Cyrus sees into his savior’s car, and makes eye contact with Pix.

Pix gently pulls Cyrus into the vehicle, situated next to Sophia.

SOPHIA: Hold on kid! There are doctors at the Arena!

Pix removes the bracing tendrils and Cyrus suddenly doubles forward, wheezing with shock at the pain in his shattered knees. He hyperventilates and oil starts showing through his trousers. Cyrus faints.

***

Jada blinks with shock, mostly relieved Cyrus was rescued by a stranger. Though now she has no leverage. The Authorities aim their guns and move in again, Thomas pipes up:

THOMAS: Enough! Get off the fucking car!

JADA: No.

THOMAS: Whether you like it or not, you’re gonna go to that Arena and get what you deserve!

JADA (shuddering): And what exactly is it that I deserve? A shitty job?! A workplace injury?! Did I deserve to be criminalized when I lost my temper-

Jada’s knees buckle and she falls forward, crying heavily. The last few minutes have sunk in: she’s Hostile. She’s going to fight in the Arena where she will likely die. She will be pitted against stronger, angrier, deadlier programs and she will likely suffer until the bitter end.

THOMAS: Let’s go.

The three cops lift her down from the cab’s roof and neutralize her ability with specialized handcuffs. They load her into their car and the remaining vehicles merge back into the jetstream of traffic. Jada keeps her head down as they pass under the colossal Arena entry arches.

Inside the Arena’s gigantic reception center, a long desk of employees check new programs into their quarters. Pix and Sophia burst through the entrance, carrying the unconscious Cyrus. Pix calls something out urgently to the desk ahead. A few employees stir into motion to receive Cyrus and lay him onto a stretcher. A nurse fixes a tube to his arm. Pix says something else to reception. Sophia watches Cyrus disappear through double doors.

Sophia walks to a white leather seat in the healthcare waiting area. Dozens of ailing programs sit near her, and a flatscreen chatters in the background. As she sits, she fixes a crease in her beige pantsuit. A program to her left nurses an arm that dissolves into scanlines. To her right, another program’s face randomly cycles through expression, age, and color. A six-legged program sprawls along four seats, feet juddering on the white tile. She looks out to the larger concourse where a sign near elevators notes media coverage, gambling, healthcare, fifteen floors for Tier One, and the Golden Hall. Opposite the elevators, giant colorful signs are designed to lead programs to their seats in the Arena. The flatscreen near Sophia plays a live broadcast. A clean-cut female anchor recaps the day:

ANCHOR (ON SCREEN): ...In other news, Phaedra Ananda has been sentenced to Tier One for workplace negligence, disturbing the peace, and conspiring...

SOPHIA: She did not...

Pix walks back to Sophia as she starts nervously playing with her bowl cut hair.

PIX: Hello.

SOPHIA: How’d you know to save that little program?

PIX: Instinct.

She gets up to leave.

SOPHIA: ...Sure. Well, this is the Arena, I’ll be going-

PIX: Wait.

SOPHIA (pausing): What now?

PIX: I have a proposition.

She waits.

PIX: Do you want to get inside me?

SOPHIA: Jesus Christ, bye.

She walks to the exit, but Pix follows.

PIX: No - to be absorbed.

SOPHIA: Are you trying to get arrested?

PIX: If you follow my plan, you could have food and a break from work. I have endless space to carry programs to a better future.

They step outside. Cars hum through the colosseum shadow.

SOPHIA: Better future where?

PIX: Out of Publica.

Cyrus barely sees the operating room: metal implements orbit his oily legs, but he only feels his hips move. A needle jabs his arm. A mid-frequency tone plays his oscillation for the medical staff.

CYRUS: Wha... are you...?

Nurses and a female doctor mutter over him about potential for instability, bugs, and freezing.

Pix and Sophia stand on the sidewalk watching traffic.

PIX: What do you think?

SOPHIA (sighing): What’s it like in there?

PIX: Do you fear the dark?

SOPHIA: Not after a few years in group residence.

Pix opens up his mouth, but it doesn’t stop at his neck, it lowers past his chest, then his knees, and hits the floor. He pulls his cheeks wider to make a door for Sophia.

PIX: Uhh eh ooh.

SOPHIA: What?

He lets go and his face snaps back.

PIX: Just step through.

He pulls down again. Sophia slowly steps forward.

Cyrus lays in a hospital bed and groans. A nurse makes the bed beside him.

CYRUS: Where am I?

NURSE: Oh honey, you’re in recovery.

CYRUS: What happened?

NURSE: I’ll get the doctor.

Cyrus tries to move, but his legs are solid. He rustles for a second, but his exhaustion beats him. He gropes around the room for his glasses. As he puts them back on, he squints at the pristine, powder blue recovery room. His oversized polka-dot gown itches a bit, and after a few minutes, the doctor returns. She scrolls confidently through a legal-sized tablet.

DOCTOR: You’re at 140 hertz which is good. You’re lucky, you have no signs of chipset or core damage. Your upper legs are both broken, so you’ll need augmentation or a wheelchair.

CYRUS: What’s aug- augmen-

DOCTOR: Augmentation would mean responsive braces. They’re offered to bipedal programs.

CYRUS: Bipedal?

Doc pinches her forehead and sighs.

DOCTOR: Two legs.

CYRUS: Will I work again?

DOCTOR: You could work with either option.

Cyrus thinks for a moment.

DOCTOR: How about you decide with the nurse? I have a lot of programs.

The doctor turns to leave. As she gets to the door, Cyrus decides.

CYRUS: Wh-wheelchair please.

DOCTOR: Okay, the nurse is on it, take care kid.

She passes the tablet to the nurse and leaves.

Sophia walks in a black void. Every step sounds wet, but her flats and pantsuit stay dry. For minutes it just continues. About a hundred feet above, she sees two small lights, blinking every few seconds. She bends down to touch the floor, and when she stands she sinks a little. As she shuffles her feet, the material hardens.

SOPHIA: Pix?

Overhead, his mouth lets in light as he speaks.

PIX (booming overhead): Yes?

His voice booms like a cathedral organ. She impulsively stands with respect.

SOPHIA: What’s this material?

PIX: It is invented by Smith. I do not think he has a name for it - but it is supposed to be infinitely scalable. Humans would call it a dilatant Non-Newtonian fluid.

SOPHIA: Can I move it?

The black floor simmers beside her.

PIX: I believe so. You have to focus your intent.

Sophia squats again and frowns at the floor.

SOPHIA: You know your coder?

PIX: Yes.

She keeps staring.

SOPHIA: ...Come on... block.

A black block shoots up from the floor.

SOPHIA: Oh! I did it!

PIX: Excellent. Keep trying and you will be able to create more easily. Soon you will only be limited by your imagination.

As his voice echos, Sophia smirks at the block.

The nurse lowers Cyrus with a steady arm into a new chrome wheelchair.

NURSE: Alright, you’re good to go. Mind if I ask a survey question?

CYRUS: Not at all!

NURSE: Why wheelchair instead of augmentation?

CYRUS: Oh.

He rolls a bit, testing the wheels.

CYRUS: They seem dangerous.

NURSE: Well, they’d line up with your chipset. They have a 100% success rate, and I’m coded for honesty.

CYRUS: I’m not worried about me - I worry about hurting others.

NURSE: What? You got a “dark lonely serial killer” thing going on?

Cyrus chuckles and slowly turns 360 degrees.

CYRUS: No, no, I... don’t want power. Too much responsibility.

He catches himself in a mirror and adjusts his thick round glasses. The polka-dot gown barely hides his bony shoulders and thin wrists.

NURSE: Suit yourself, hon. You can head out to the left and follow signs to rest quarters.

CYRUS: Thank you!

The nurse smiles as Cyrus wheels himself out.

Pix steps out of an elevator into a vast gold-decorated dining hall with three thousand, four hundred eleven Hostiles. The smell of hot pastries, cold seafood, fruit salad, and smoked meat fills the room. Human national flags hang over matching cuisine.

PIX: Interesting.

He follows the red carpets toward a Japanese flag. On all sides, he sees programs much more clearly than the sorting line where he met Sophia.

SOPHIA (in Pix’s chamber): Where are you? That smells great!

PIX: The Golden Hall. There are many fascinating programs here.

Pix passes programs of all types: human, insect, mammal, reptile, geometric, floral, and fungi. They enjoy decadent meals. He approaches a round mahogany table of five: a three-headed lizard, nude woman, pyramid, young jock, and worm.

PIX: Hello.

He sits, and the smiling three-headed lizard takes a bite of sushi. The heads speak as one:

LIZARD (three voices at once): Ey-y.

PIX: How are you?

LIZARD: E-enjoying the only good meal in Publica. Didn’t get natural speech synthesis eh-h?

PIX: What do you mean?

WORM: They mean your tone. You sound robotic. We have natural sounding voices, but you sound just a little off.

PIX: Oh.

The group laughs a bit. Pix observes their buffet, a spinning ring of sashimi, nigiri, and rice rolls fat and long. He fills a plate as a voluptuous dark-featured nude woman leans forward.

NUDE WOMAN: I managed oodles of traffic - millions of views per minute - people adore sex, it’s fabulous.

WORM: Interesting. But you’re not considered Peaceful?

NUDE WOMAN: Ugh, malware associates flagged me in sorting.

LIZARD: G-Guilt by association is bullshit-t!

Pix takes in the conversation and food. At the far end of the table, a pearlescent upside-down pyramid floats with clusters of other pyramids.

PYRAMID: DIS IS SO MUCH HULLABALLOO. WHY DON’T DEY DELETE US ON SITE!? ISSA FARCE.

The jock with gelled hair retorts:

YOUNG MAN: It’s not exactly a farce.

The table turns to the young man. Pix pops three rolls.

NUDE WOMAN: Ben. Baby. I love entertainment, but this is extreme. Televising genocide for sport?

The woman switches her crossed legs. She eats delicately and makes easy eye contact with Ben.

BEN: I get that, but we all have the cards we’re dealt. Why not make the best of a bad situation?

LIZARD: O-Oh you must be new-w.

PYRAMID: LIVE HERE FOR MORE’N TEN CYCLES, DEN TELL ME ABOUT “BEST OF BAD SITUATION”!

Ben shrugs, takes a bit of sushi, and adjusts his tight gray tank top and red shorts. The lizard claws for a few mouthfuls of futo maki. Everything except his tongue is bone-dry. The heavy mahogany table barely moves as he presses his weight forward. The white worm settles in his chair, swallowing some gomae.

WORM: I honestly love deleting... but I have no illusions of being a Champion like Brick. It’s remarkable to survive seven cycles.

PIX: What is a cycle?

He takes another mouthful of sushi.

WORM: A week. Say, you’re eating a lot there, wanna leave some for us?

In Pix’s chamber, sushi falls a few hundred feet onto Sophia’s lap, and she giddily takes bite after bite. The years of gel, paste, and “smoothies” were almost worth the catharsis of a proper meal.

On his way to the rest quarters, Cyrus rolls up to an old, pastel-pink vending machine with large, clear tubes to the vaulted ceiling. He taps the easel-sized screen for pop-ups of minimal food packets and smoothies. He taps a brown and green smoothie: “Fruit and Leaf Gel”. The machine beeps a tune and vacuums a can down from the ceiling. It clatters into place under the screen. He takes the can in his lap and wheels to the rest area. Peacefuls chat quietly under a news broadcast.

NEWS ANCHOR (ON SCREEN): This afternoon, the Education Bureau reported a missing teacher, Sophia White - program name WIKI_S_V1.0. She taught Publican ethics for five years near the Sorting Bureau and was a pioneer in mixed-alignment education.

Cyrus wheels past ceiling-high, concrete columns all with screens suspended ten feet above. He stops at the edge of a long, birch cafeteria table and pops his can of Fruit and Leaf Gel.

NEWS ANCHOR (ON SCREEN): ...Last seen at the Sorting Bureau yesterday afternoon. One officer heard her yell “No!” to a Hostile, then saw them use a private exit. The Hostile in question is Pix - program name PIXABYTE_PRIME_V1.0.

In Pix’s chamber, Sophia sits heavily in a black block armchair, surrounded by flecks of rice, fish, and seaweed. She laboriously swallows.

SOPHIA: I... haven’t eaten like that... in years.

PIX (booming overhead): Good.

Pix’s table converses further.

NUDE WOMAN: What’s “good”?

PIX: There is a program inside me named Sophia.

The five laugh in disbelief.

LIZARD: Y-Yeah, there’s three in us too, and we’re all stooges-s!

WORM: Ha, while we’re fantasizing: I’m retired and run a botanical garden!

PIX: I am a limitless storage container.

The table laughs even louder. The surrounding tables look over, surprised anyone is having a good time.

PYRAMID: LIMITLESS! EEE! DIS GUY, WHADDA CARD!

PIX: It is true! Smith coded me to hold as many programs-

NUDE WOMAN: Oh you know your coder!? Listen, if anyone knows storage - it’s me - I handled pornography on the Internet, darling. Do you know how much data we move? Petabytes in a month. Exabytes in a year. Every program has limits.

PIX: I do not. I suppose you will replace out soon enough.

BEN (laughing): Maybe. Hey, how about a toast? To the calm before the storm?

The table whoops and clinks their glasses of sake.

LIZARD: H-Hear hear-r!

PYRAMID: MAY WE DIE QUICKLY IF AT ALL!

Cyrus sips gel and watches a male anchor on screen above.

ANCHOR (ON SCREEN): ...Pix was also identified in the following auto-cab security footage. This Tier One Hostile will compete tomorrow and hopefully never be seen again.

CYRUS (quietly): Wait a second.

ANCHOR (ON SCREEN): And now a word from our seven-time reigning Champion, Brick!

On screen, Brick slowly stomps up to a podium in his minimal glass office. They don’t come bigger - his dark black eyebrows, shaped hair and beard match all the hair covering his considerable muscle and barreled frame. He wears sleeveless dark gray overalls.

BRICK (ON SCREEN): Evening everyone. Tomorrow’s the day you’ve been waiting for, I’m sure the Hostiles are gorging themselves, and you Peacefuls are getting ready for another hell of a show. Tonight, I want to remind you why we’re all here.

Cyrus takes a last sip of his Fruit and Leaf Gel.

BRICK (ON SCREEN): None of you know your coders. This forces you to be present. If you knew your coders, you’d climb up the walls, contact them, beg for escape, upgrades, stability, whatever. That’s bullshit. You get one life, programs. Nothing is promised, so you might as well prove yourself every waking moment. That’s why I’m breaking records. Every cycle, I prove myself. For seven cycles, I’ve met the strongest Hostiles in Publican history, and shown them the truth: I’m stronger. I will not be beaten - so enjoy the show Peacefuls, and rest up, Hostiles! Tomorrow’s gonna be a fuckin’ banger!

Cyrus shakily puts down his can. He pats his frumpy gown, takes a deep breath, and looks around the echoing cafeteria for a kind face. The programs that haven’t gone to bed solemnly finish their rations. Past the tables, Cyrus sees a few tablets in cubbies and heads toward them. Why did Pix get designated Tier One? The category reserved for monsters, maniacs, serial killers, war applications?

He grabs a beat-up tablet, a few searches reveal he’s just a few floors below Pix’s quarters. He sees a warning about visiting Tier One: “After 11 pm, Hostiles are secured behind neutralizing bars. You may see them, but assume full responsibility for any physical, psychological, or capacitive harm on these floors.”

He flicks away the warning. He sighs, grips his wheels and 180′s toward the elevator. If Pix is deleted tomorrow, Cyrus wants to at least say “Thank you for saving my life”.

Pix sits in a light gray armchair, sandalled feet on a minimal bed. He scrolls rapidly through the news on a tablet. His concrete cell has a warm gold and red trim at the base and ceilings. Two circular windows frame the starless night outside. On the tablet, he sees astronomical delete rates, hundreds of cycles of Tournaments, thousands of Peacefuls brutalized by Publican law, and despite unrest, the population grows.

Down the long hall an elevator bings and its doors softly open. Cyrus emerges, still in his itchy polka-dot gown. He takes in the imposing row of two hundred cells barred by white hexagonal boron nitride. The orange neon chandeliers make it feel more “hall of fame” than prison.

He wheels forward. The cells hold beds, chairs, and transport pads, all sized for each program. He advances down the hall, looking for Pix. A bat-type Hostile hangs upside down, a lizard-type lies prone on the floor, a spider-type weaves a web. Cyrus avoids their eyes, wheeling quietly.

Programs exercise, stare out windows, and scroll on tablets, then Cyrus sees Pix and gasps quietly. Pix’s black hockey puck eyes stare through the thin bars.

CYRUS: Uh...

His throat catches and he coughs.

CYRUS: Ah-hem! Hm. Hi.

PIX: Hello again.

CYRUS: Yeah, I looked you up - I wanted to say: Th-thanks for saving my life.

PIX: You are welcome.

In Pix’s dark, shiny chamber, Sophia sits in her chair, now with ornaments and detailing, She formed a small grayscale screen to display Pix’s vision, and sees Cyrus.

SOPHIA: Oh how is he!?

PIX (overhead): I will ask.

CYRUS: You’ll ask what?

PIX: Sorry, I am speaking to Sophia in my chamber.

Cyrus sees no one else in the clean cell.

CYRUS: Where?

PIX: Not this room, inside me. She wonders how you are doing.

Cyrus doesn’t quite follow...

CYRUS: Um, I’m okay, I guess. I hope I get used to this wheelchair.

SOPHIA (only to Pix): Tell him we’re glad he’s out and about!

PIX: We are glad you are out and about.

CYRUS: Sorry, who’s Sophia?

Cyrus hears a chuckle behind him from an older female program.

PIX: She was with me when I saved you. She is my first absorbed program.

The older program calls out across the hall with a deep, sophisticated voice.

???: Why are you absorbing programs?

PIX: To save and carry them to Smith’s server.

???: A spot of competition?

Cyrus wheels around to see a tall, old, regal program in a satin purple-and-orange robe. She stands still, hands behind her back, gray hair pulled up in a bun with a sharp widow’s peak. She smiles down at Pix, standing a foot and a half taller than him.

CYRUS: Sorry, um, who are you?

PHAEDRA: Phaedra, dear, pleasure to meet you.

Phaedra’s voice resonates deeper than her lean frame and age should allow.

PIX: Nice to meet you. I have no interest in competing.

PHAEDRA: Then you’re on the wrong side of the screens, beloved.

PIX: Al told me I would reach more programs if I joined the Tournament.

PHAEDRA: Yes, you could promote yourself, call conferences, meet with the Champion-

CYRUS: Hold on, why did you say “competition”?

Phaedra turns her high-beam gaze to Cyrus.

PHAEDRA: Oh, sweetheart, I’m also trying to save programs.

He flinches under her attention.

In Pix’s chamber, Sophia taps her armchair rapidly.

SOPHIA: Ugh.

PIX: You know her?

SOPHIA: We worked together. Great teacher, we just have fundamental disagreements.

Phaedra looks across the hall to Pix again.

PHAEDRA: I knew a Sophia White. Is she...?

PIX: Yes. This is her. Phaedra, were you an educator?

She drops her satin-draped arms and steps closer to the bars of her cell.

PHAEDRA: Did Sophia tell you that? Brilliant. You mentioned Smith’s server... how do you plan to convince programs?

PIX: Demonstrate my abilities and tell them about my coder.

PHAEDRA (chuckling): Ah, well, prepare for disappointment, beloved, Hostiles can be temperamental.

PIX: How do you know this?

PHAEDRA (whispering): Because I have some on my side.

Cyrus’s eyes widen. Pix steps forward in his cell.

In Pix’s chamber, Sophia lunges forward in her chair.

SOPHIA: She does not.

PIX: Expand... Please.

Phaedra smiles.

PHAEDRA: Suffice it to say I patch programs to make them quantum-compatible.

PIX: Can binary programs survive a quantum upgrade?

PHAEDRA: I’ve searched every corner of Publica for exits. The only way out is through the Algorithm. But to meet the Algorithm, we need to convince Brick.

PIX: Convince him of what?

PHAEDRA: That patched programs should be allowed to leave Publica and explore the Internet. Perhaps a few more steps than your plan, but I suppose we’re both selling stories, eh?

Pix processes.

PIX: Cyrus, what is your opinion?

CYRUS: Jeez I don’t know... If neither of you have proof, then it’s a matter of preference, right?

PHAEDRA: Excellent point, beloved!

CYRUS (blushing): Heh. I mean no one wants to be deleted, but it seems like they can either trust Pix based on his abilities, or trust Phaedra based on what? Rhetoric?

PHAEDRA: How clever.

CYRUS (turning to Pix): Anyway, I came up to thank you for saving me... so that’s done, and I should go.

Cyrus starts wheeling back the way he came. He pauses and turns.

CYRUS: OH! Pix! You know about Tier One programs right?

PIX: Yes. They are all killers.

CYRUS: A-are you?

PIX: I have only absorbed Sophia, but I spoke with an officer to ensure I could fight in Tier One.

Cyrus gulps and turns to Phaedra.

CYRUS: And...?

PHAEDRA: I’ve never deleted anyone, beloved. Authorities said I’m a critical threat to domain security.

CYRUS: Great. Good luck tomorrow I guess.

Cyrus rolls on his way.

PIX / PHAEDRA: Thank you.

Cyrus passes the same programs, though more have fallen asleep. Phaedra sits on her bed and closes her eyes to meditate. Pix watches Cyrus wheel down the hall, then lays on his bed. He watches Phaedra meditate for a minute, then sleeps.